


Heaven Isn’t a Place (It’s a Person)

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (of a sort), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley and Aziraphale were close before his Fall, Crowley pines, Love Confessions, M/M, Now with added bonus content!, Pining, Reunion, Some angst, but Aziraphale didn't recognise Crowley afterwards, but a happy ending okay?, mostly based on the tv show, see chapter 2 for bonus content, spoilers for the tv show, this is a bit of a mash-up between book and tv canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-05-12 07:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19224616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: Crowley didn’t remember very much of his time as an angel – consequence of the Fall, and all that. But there was one memory that they had never managed to take from him – and that was Aziraphale.Or:In 6000 years, Aziraphale had never asked Crowley who he’d been, before the Fall. But after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley thought that maybe it was about time Aziraphale found out.





	1. Heaven Isn’t a Place (It’s a Person)

**Author's Note:**

> I have worked on this with so much intensity that I no longer have any accuracy of judgment where it is concerned. Enjoy. I hope it's good.
> 
> Also, the first... third?... of this fic is involving events from the TV adaptation, so don't read if you haven't seen it - spoilers galore! But then we cut to divergence from canon...
> 
> I didn't want to tag it, because SPOILERS, but basically: what if the thing with the holy water and the hellfire _hadn't_ been a trick?

****

** Heaven Isn’t a Place (It’s a Person) **

Crowley hadn’t always been a demon.

Once, long ago, before he’d Sauntered Vaguely Downwards, he’d been an angel.

Crowley didn’t remember very much of his time as an angel – consequence of the Fall, and all that. But there was one memory that they had never managed to take from him – and that was Aziraphale.

They’d been very close, Remiel and Aziraphale, back in the old days before anyone knew that rebellion – and Falling – was something that could happen. But then everything had gone so wrong: Crowley had gotten the boot alongside all the others; that business with the Garden of Eden had happened… and Aziraphale had looked him full in the face, and hadn’t _seen_ him.

Hadn’t _known_ him.

That, for Crowley, had been the deepest cut of all. As far as he was concerned, he could take or leave all that harp-playing, chorus-of-the-Host stuff. But Aziraphale? _Losing_ Aziraphale?

That truly was Hell.

Maybe that was why he’d started up their conversation in the Garden, even though it had become clear that Aziraphale only saw the Serpent – the tempter, the _demon_ – and not the angel-that-was.

Over the millennia, Crowley did his best to re-befriend Aziraphale. The angel never turned him away – he was far too kind-hearted to turn away even a demon – but he wasn’t all that receptive to Crowley’s overtures, either.

Crowley never told Aziraphale that he’d been Remiel, before the Fall. What would be the point? Aziraphale had made his opinion of demons quite clear, and formerly-Remiel or not, Crowley was still, most definitely, a demon.

Not that he could have told Aziraphale if he’d wanted to, however. His old name – the holy, sacred one – _burned_ whenever he spoke it. Crowley supposed that he’d lost the right to it when he’d Fallen, just as all the other angels-turned-demons had lost theirs.

Part of him resented losing it. It was his _name_ , for crying out loud, and just because a name with that meaning wasn’t entirely appropriate for him anymore was no reason to forbid him from using it altogether.

Of course, mostly he was happy enough being Crowley. He liked to think that he’d grown as a person since the old days – not necessarily _good_ growth, but certainly _interesting_ , and that was better than mere _good_ , wasn’t it?

Aziraphale, for all that he was an angel, seemed to feel the same way, even if he’d never admit it out loud (or, possibly, even in the privacy of his own mind), but – _look_ , you couldn’t spend several thousand years palling around with a demon and then try to insist that _goodness_ was your most valued attribute in a person, could you?

Well, Azirphale _could_ ; try, that was. But Crowley knew better. That same streak of bastardry that set Aziraphale apart from all of the run-of-the-mill angels allowed him to appreciate Crowley’s own, significantly-stronger streak of bastardry. But good luck ever getting the angel to admit it even if they were on this Earth a million years, Crowley sometimes thought, and the thought was as fond as it was bitter.

Because Aziraphale was Aziraphale, and Crowley wouldn’t change him for anything. It just… well, it hurt sometimes, that was all. That the angel couldn’t even admit that he liked Crowley, most days, without having some kind of existential crisis about it.

Crowley didn’t have that problem. He’d always known that deep down, he wasn’t all that good at being a demon. Because while he could be a petty, cynical bastard – difficult not to be, when you were involved with Hell’s bureaucracy – he wasn’t, well, _evil_.

That spark of goodness which Azirphale occasionally mentioned still existed inside of him, somehow never extinguished by the brighter-burning fires of Hell. Most demons, Crowley knew, were evil through and through. Crowley was definitely wicked, but he just didn’t have it in him to do the things that other demons would have done in a heartbeat (had they Crowley’s imagination, anyway). 

Perhaps Crowley had always been that way, or maybe it was humanity rubbing off on him. It didn’t really matter, in the end. He couldn’t go back to being an angel – and wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could – and if he and Aziraphale never again had the relationship they’d once had… then there was nothing that Crowleycould do about it, really.

But his tiny spark of hope that someday things might change for the better, somehow persisted. Crowley had always been too much of an optimist – and look where that had gotten him.

* * *

Things stayed the same between the demon and the angel for some six thousand years. And then, out of the blue, things suddenly began to change.

Crowley had no idea why Aziraphale had changed his mind, and given Crowley the holy water he’d wanted, for ‘insurance.’ No idea what had changed in the angel, although something obviously had. Aziraphale had expressed concern for Crowley – a first – and given him what he’d asked for, despite the risk if anyone Upstairs found out exactly what Aziraphale, an angel, had willingly handed over to a _demon_. 

It made hope unfurl in Crowley’s heart, where it had been slowly withering over millennia. So Crowley offered to drop Aziraphale home, or anywhere, really. All he wanted was to do something simple and kind for the angel, with no ulterior motive.

But perhaps he’d been _too_ sincere: shining a spotlight, if you will, on this changing _thing_ between himself and Aziraphale. Because angels didn’t help demons, and demons didn’t do kind things for angels.

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale had looked frightened (and beneath that, wistful, of all things), and said, “You move too fast for me, Crowley.”

He’d left the Bentley, leaving Crowley staring after him, stricken.

Perhaps Crowley should have told Aziraphale his old name right then, he had wondered in the days that followed. The angel obviously cared enough for Crowley that he didn’t want the demon risking himself through acquiring holy water through other means – but…

_ You move too fast for me, Crowley. _

The words kept ringing in Crowley’s head, replaying over and over as he tried to wring every possible shade of nuance from them.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? Crowley, in trying to recreate their relationship-from-Before, was moving at what seemed to Aziraphale, who didn’t know the truth, to be far too fast a pace. So perhaps Crowley should have told him.

But Aziraphale had been gone before Crowley could do so. Besides, Crowley didn’t know which possibility was worse: Aziraphale refusing believe that Crowley had been Remiel, or Aziraphale believing him, but rejecting him all the same.

So, despite the hope growing in his heart, Crowley knew that it behoved him to tread very, very carefully from now on.

* * *

Decades later, standing in front of Gabriel and Beelzebub and watching the Antichrist face them both down with the news that he wouldn’t be ending the world, Crowley involuntarily glanced at Aziraphale.

They’d both chosen a side – the _same_ side – and done their best to avert the oncoming Armageddon together. It wasn’t the same thing as Aziraphale choosing _Crowley’s_ side, exactly… but it was close enough.

So once Gabriel and Beelzebub were gone, Crowley turned to Aziraphale, and said,

“Aziraphale, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

He didn’t know how he’d manage to get the name out when it hurt so much to say, but he had to _try_. Aziraphale deserved to know.

But then the ground began to shake, and Crowley realised that after all this time, their time had run out.

Only, miracle of miracles, the Antichrist seemed to be winning, even against Satan – and then, suddenly, it was over, inasmuch as it ever would be.

Later, once the sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, both of them waiting on the bus to Oxford, Aziraphale asked:

“What did you want to tell me, Crowley?”

For just a moment, Crowley nearly told him.

But then he looked at Aziraphale – at the tiredness and uncertainty of him – and knew that now was not the time to give the angel yet another shock. Because it _would_ be a shock, even if the angel took it well… and if he didn’t…

Crowley’s mind shied away from that train of thought.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Crowley said, and let the moment pass.

He felt different, now that he’d disavowed Hell… but he didn’t know why. Aziraphale was clearly similarly affected, nervous and jittery, reaching for a familiarity that wasn’t there.

What Crowley wanted to say was: _Heaven and Hell won’t let this stand, Aziraphale. They’ll want vengeance. We need to come up with a plan_.

But the angel looked so very careworn that Crowley couldn’t press the issue.

And so it slipped away, along with any final chance of escaping what was coming. Because the vengeance of their respective sides came the very next day. As it turned out, even Heaven and Hell could work fast, if motivated enough.

* * *

A bath of holy water, to destroy a demon. Crowley had to admit, it was ingenious. He’d probably given them the idea. But his holy water ‘insurance’ had bought them some time, and the world was going to spin on, and… well, that had to be worth something, surely?

Heaven and Hell joining forces, though… that was a little more surprising. But maybe it shouldn’t have been, because they weren’t really so different, at the core. No imagination; and populated by beings of the same angelic stock, even if some had different political affiliations. They had more in common with each other than Earth, didn’t they?

Crowley, however, had always liked the humans best. Best after Aziraphale, anyway. But Aziraphale had never exactly been your standard angel to begin with.

Crowley was terrified by the prospect of what was coming, but he knew, better than anyone, that there was no mercy in Hell. So he closed his eyes and stepped up to the bath, trying to prepare himself for the agony and blinding pain that would (briefly) precede his doom, determined to at least face his end with dignity.

Besides… if they were trying something similar Upstairs, with Aziraphale… he wasn’t sure that he wanted to live in a world without the angel, anyway. 

Crowley stepped in to the bath and waited for the end.

Instead, cool, fresh, blessed water lapped around his ankles – doing him no harm at all.

From the frozen, disbelieving, suddenly-afraid expressions on the faces of the demons around him – especially Beelzebub’s – no one else knew what to make of it, either.

A thousand thoughts went through Crowley’s head, all at once. And then, because Crowley had always been at his best when improvising, he turned his darkest smile on Beelzebub.

“I guess the question you should be asking yourself,” said Crowley, his voice soft and sinister, “is if he can do _this_ … what else can he do?”

Judging from Beelzebub’s blankly-terrified expression, the Commander of Satan’s forces had zero desire to find out.

* * *

In the end, of course, Hell let Crowley go – because what else could they do, really? Even their co-conspirator, the archangel Michael, hadn’t seemed to know what to make of a demon immune to holy water. It was a funny thing, watching an archangel flail before you, and ordinarily Crowley would have laughed his head off, except – Aziraphale.

Crowley had no idea what had happened to the angel. _He could be dead_ , Crowley thought, experimentally. A second later, panic and despair threatened to swallow him up.

But he fought the feeling, because he’d already believed Aziraphale dead once in the past forty-eight hours, and it had turned out to be a false alarm. Crowley wasn’t giving up yet.

On a whim, Crowley manifested his wings, and looked over his shoulder. Scattered amongst the sleek, inky feathers were brilliant white ones, in stark contrast to what his wings had looked like before.

“How about that?” Crowley murmured. Then he wondered: _does this mean…?_

Half trembling, for reasons he refused to examine too closely, Crowley formed the syllables of his original, lost name, and spoke them aloud.

“Remiel.”

Nothing bad happened – no burn, no sting; only the faintest sense of _rightness_.

Crowley nearly smiled; but then he thought, _is it too late?_

That wiped anything resembling a smile from his face, because if he didn’t get to tell Aziraphale who he was – had been, rather – then what was the point?

Crowley swallowed. He’d never felt anything in his entire existence like he had when he’d seen the burning bookshop, and believed Aziraphale dead. It had been the longest, most hopeless hour of his existence, before Aziraphale had managed to contact him and brought the light back into Crowley’s life.

He’d go to St James Park, he thought, and he’d wait for Aziraphale, for however long it took – and if that meant waiting forever, then that was better than the prospect of facing an eternity without him. After everything that had happened, Crowley couldn’t lose hope now.

As it turned out, he only needed to wait for two hours before a tired, oh-so-familiar voice went, 

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s heart sang with joy and gladness. _Thank you_ , he thought, very carefully not specifying who he was thanking. He was up off the park bench in an instant, a smile of jubilant relief on his face.

“Aziraphale.”

His smile faded, however, as he got a good look at the angel’s expression. There was relief there at the sight of Crowley, deep and genuine, but that relief was tempered by loss.

And Crowley realised that whatever had happened, it hadn’t been just him.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he said, with more sympathy than he meant to – he just couldn’t help it.

But Aziraphale turned a fragile smile on Crowley, soaking up the sympathy like a plant breathing in sunlight, and Crowley couldn’t regret it. All he regretted was that the angel – _former_ angel – appeared so troubled.

“Well, it turns out you were right. It seems we are, indeed, on our own side, now,” said Aziraphale, trying to put a brave face on it, and Crowley felt a rush of – something.

It must have shown on his face, at least a little, because Aziraphale’s brittle smile cracked around the edges.

“What’d they try to do to you?” asked Crowley.

“Hellfire. I was… quite impervious. And you?”

“Holy water. It didn’t bother me, either. Oh, and I got my name back,” he said, striving to sound casual about it.

But Aziraphale blinked at him, as though he didn’t know what Crowley was talking about.

“Your name?”

“Yeah. The one I lost with the Fall,” said Crowley. “It doesn’t hurt to say it, anymore.”

Aziraphale stared at him, looking thrown. Finally the former angel said,

“Well, that’s very good to hear, my dear, you must be so–”

“Remiel,” said Crowley, desperate to say it, and Aziraphale’s words stopped dead. “It’s Remiel. My name, I mean. I’m Remiel.”

Aziraphale stared at him. There was the longest silence.

Crowley felt his heart sink down level with his shoes. But then Aziraphale said, his voice tremulous:

“R-Remiel? If this is a joke–”

“It’s not,” said Crowley, his voice low and quiet, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. “I swear, angel, it’s me.”

“ _Remiel_ ,” said Aziraphale, and to Crowley’s alarm, tears welled up in Aziraphale’s eyes. “You mean – all this time–”

There was dawning hope on Aziraphale’s face, the hope of regaining something long thought lost, and it hurt Crowley to see it – but it was a good kind of hurt.

“It’s… really you…?”

Crowley nodded, his words failing him. 

Aziraphale choked back something that might have been a sob.

“My dear, why didn’t you ever _tell_ me?”

“You mean besides the fact that I literally couldn’t say my name without it burning?” Crowley hesitated, because Aziraphale deserved the truth. 

“Scared, I suppose,” he said finally. “Wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

“How I’d – oh, _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale, because understanding was filtering into his eyes, along with regret. He corrected himself a moment later. “Remiel, that is.”

“You can call me Crowley. I haven’t gone by Remiel in a long time, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, but – oh, all this time I was missing you, and you were right here in front of me,” said Aziraphale. “You must think me such an old silly.”

“Never,” said Crowley, his voice fond. Then: “Well, maybe a bit.”

“No wonder I–” said Aziraphale, and stopped. A flush came into his cheeks.

“You…?” said Crowley, leadingly, temptingly, because he was very curious about where that sentence had been about to go.

Aziraphale waved the question away. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, and then hesitated. “Well, no, it’s not nothing. In fact, I–”

And then Aziraphale clammed up.

Somehow, Crowley managed to actually keep silent, sensing that this was something Aziraphale needed to get out in his own time.

“Oh, what is even the point of keeping it a secret, now?” said Aziraphale. He avoided Crowley’s eyes. “Crowley…”

“Yes?”

Crowley leaned in a little, his traitorous heart hoping against hope.

“I… well.” Aziraphale tried to gather his composure. “I have had… these past seventy years or so… feelings of a rather, ah, inappropriate nature, at least for an angel to harbour for a demon…”

“Not a demon anymore,” Crowley managed, through a suddenly dry throat.

“Yes, I know. What I am trying to say, is… oh, dash it. I am terrible at this.”

“ _Angel_.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale blurted out, and then looked terribly flustered at himself.

“You love me,” said Crowley. Giddy happiness was blooming in his chest.

“Quite.” Aziraphale busied himself with dusting off the sleeves of his coat. “I don’t expect you to return my feelings, of course–”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley stared at him. “Of course I love you. When do you think I ever stopped?”

Aziraphale finally looked at Crowley.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, in a tiny voice. And then: “But, after the Fall…? I thought that all of the demons lost their ability to feel… well, love, and so on?”

“Yeah, but I was never really that good at being a demon.” A new thought struck Crowley. “Hang on – seventy years? What happened seventy years ago?”

“You don’t _remember?_ ” Aziraphale sounded as though he could hardly credit it.

“Nope. What–”

“It was the _books_ ,” said Aziraphale, in a rush. “1941. The bombing. In the church. With the Nazis trying to kill me, remember? Only you saved me, and then the books. _A demonic miracle_ , you said. That was when I knew.”

“That’s – six thousand years of trying to win over your affections, and _that’s_ what does it?”

It was so very Aziraphale, Crowley thought, that he couldn’t help but laugh.

Aziraphale looked affronted.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that–”

“Oh, come on, Aziraphale.” Crowley snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s collar, reeling him in until they were standing very close. “That is so typically you. I don’t know how I couldn’t have seen it. Of course it was the _books_.”

Crowley shook his head in fond exasperation – but there was far more fondness than exasperation.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, staring. “You’re _pleased_.”

“Of course I’m pleased,” said Crowley, a smile blossoming on his face. “This angel I’ve been in love with for millennia just said he loves me back.”

For some reason Aziraphale’s face fell at that, as though Crowley’s words reminded him of something sad.

“Aziraphale?”

“I’m sorry, Crowley. It’s just… I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” Aziraphale shook his head. “I’ve been an angel for all of my existence. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“So don’t try,” said Crowley. “Just be you. You’re good at that.”

That got Crowley a wobbly smile in response, but then–

“You know, I always wondered,” said Aziraphale. “Why would a mighty _archangel_ want to spend time in my company? I’m merely a Principality, after all.” Aziraphale made a slight face, remembering that he was a Principality no longer. “Or I was.”

Crowley blinked, because that was the very last thing he’d expected Aziraphale to ask. 

“I’m not an archangel anymore,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “And why wouldn’t I want to spend time in your company?”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley in bewilderment. Crowley stared back, just as uncomprehending.

Finally Aziraphale said, “But you kept seeking me out, even after you Fell.” He sounded genuinely baffled. “You were a _demon_ – a creature of malice, and so on. But you were always kind to me.”

“If there’s a question in there, I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s just… well, I’m nothing special.” Aziraphale shifted, for the first time looking uncomfortable with their close proximity. He was trying to avoid Crowley’s gaze, and mostly failing.

Words deserted Crowley for a moment from the sheer inanity of that statement.

“Of course you are,” he said, when he could speak again. “What a bloody stupid thing to say!”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley fleetingly, then back over Crowley’s right shoulder, as though eye contact was too difficult right now.

“But I’m not,” Aziraphale insisted, sounding wretched about it. “I’m only an angel – and now I’m not even that. Really. I’m nothing special, Crowley.”

Crowley reached up with the arm that wasn’t wound around Aziraphale’s neck, and tilted Aziraphale’s chin up so that the former angel was forced to meet his eyes.

“Well, you are to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at that, and he stared into Crowley’s own for a long moment.

“Oh.” Aziraphale sounded stunned. “You really _do_ love me.”

“I said I did, didn’t I?” 

But Crowley was smiling, because _Aziraphale_ was smiling – smiling so much that he was practically glowing from the inside. 

Crowley switched to ethereal senses rather than bodily ones, and yes, Aziraphale was lit up like a sun right now, dazzling to look at.

“You know,” said Aziraphale, “I’m aware that this is awfully human of me, but I always wanted to know…”

“Know what?” asked Crowley.

“What it felt like,” said Aziraphale, which made absolutely no sense until the angel leaned in, sliding his arms around Crowley’s neck in a way that felt just right, and pressed his mouth to Crowley’s.

Crowley was too surprised for a second to do anything. But the moment he got over his surprise, his grip on Aziraphale tightened, and he kissed the former angel back.

Eventually they broke apart. Both of them were smiling.

“Rather forward of you,” said Crowley. 

“Not really.”

“No, I suppose not.”

They grinned at one another.

* * *

Much later, Aziraphale asked Crowley, “What do you suppose we do now?”

Crowley only shrugged.

“Whatever we like, I suppose.”

Aziraphale frowned. 

“It’s just, now that it’s all over…”

“Oh, it’s not over,” said Crowley, who had given this some thought. “It’s just going to be a different war, isn’t it?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley nodded at the humans around them, feeding the ducks and strolling down the paths. 

“It’s going to be Heaven and Hell versus them, I reckon.”

“What, the humans?” Aziraphale looked startled, then pensive. “Well, I suppose I know where we stand, don’t we?”

“I guess we do, angel.”

“I’m not an angel anymore, remember?”

Crowley only raised Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, kissing the tips of his fingers. Aziraphale turned a lovely shade of pink, but smiled at the gesture.

“You’ll always be an angel to me,” said Crowley, which was at once both a _terrible_ line, and absolutely, utterly true.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, and he turned even pinker. But the former angel didn’t argue, only looked tremendously pleased by Crowley’s words.

“You know,” he said, eventually, with Crowley’s arm still around his shoulders (and Crowley was never in a million years going to forget the sense of mingled pride and contentment he felt right now, that Aziraphale _wanted_ Crowley’s arm around him), “if we really are… our own side, then perhaps it’s time for a change.”

“Oh?” Crowley tilted his head. “What are you thinking?”

“Well.” Aziraphale got a small, embarrassed smile. “I always thought that it might be nice to live in the country, for a little while. Keep some bees, perhaps. Grow a garden. All of the things one can’t do as well in London, you know. Now that we’re truly free agents…” 

Aziraphale shrugged a little, looking self-conscious.

“What was it Johnson said? _When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life?_ ” said Crowley, but then he stopped to consider the idea.

They could get a cottage, he thought. Share a house – a _home_. Crowley hadn’t had a home since his Fall, not really – only a collection of places he’d resided in over the years, places where he was neither safe nor particularly comfortable. The closest thing he’d had to a home was Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

The thought of a _proper_ home, one he shared with Aziraphale… it did warm, fluttery things to his insides.

Aziraphale, who was unaware of Crowley’s thoughts, huffed.

“Well, if you don’t want to–”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Crowley, because most of the time he was terrible at admitting what he wanted. Probably because he was terrified of losing it all, all over again. “It might be nice. But what about the bookshop?”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful.

“Well, I could take some of the books with me, of course–”

“Of course.”

“–but the bookshop… it just isn’t quite the same as it was. I’m sure young Adam did his best, but I’ll always know, deep down, that it burned down and all of my books were destroyed.”

Memory tugged at Crowley. He spoke.

“I’ve still got Agnes Nutter’s book, if you want it. Bit singed, mind.”

“Thank you, and I do, but… I suppose that I’ll need to begin a new collection,” said Aziraphale, his expression brightening at the prospect.

Crowley could see it now: their cottage overrun with books, and the former angel coming back from auctions and unsuspecting second-hand book dealers with _even more_ books, until there was scarcely any room for anything else but Crowley’s house-plants.

The thought made Crowley feel warm.

“You know what? Let’s do it,” said Crowley. “Buy a cottage somewhere. You can collect your books and keep bees, and I’ll have my plants and the Bentley, and we can… I don’t know. Be domestic.”

Aziraphale sent Crowley a look of fond affection, which only fuelled Crowley’s contentment.

“I always thought the South Downs seemed pleasant,” said Aziraphale. “Picturesque. We could go there.”

Crowley smiled.

“Why not?”

And then, because he could, he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, and the two of them sat and watched the world go by.

It would take time, Crowley knew, for Aziraphale to adjust to there being no one from Upstairs and Downstairs constantly looking over their shoulders, and no rules for either of them to follow, anymore… but Crowley also knew that they’d get there eventually. 

And in the meantime, they had each other, just as they had in the Beginning, back before Crowley Fell; and that, in the end, was all they really needed.


	2. Timestamp: after the events of 'Heaven Isn’t a Place (It’s a Person)'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief time-stamp taking place after the events of the main fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you guys liked the fic so much, have a time-stamp fic set in the same universe!

** Timestamp: after the events of _Heaven Isn’t a Place (It’s a Person)_ **

****

The day after Crowley and Aziraphale moved into their cottage out in the country, there was a ring at the doorbell.

Crowley had awoken that morning in a warm, comfortable bed, with a warm, comfortable former-angel wrapped around him. While this was an experience he’d slowly been getting used to over the past couple of months or so, it still meant that he approached the morning in a rather good mood.

He’d gone so long without any kind of friendly touch; and now here he was, with the one person he’d always loved more than anything, willing to cuddle up to him. It was a little overwhelming, at times – in his sleep Aziraphale sometimes acted like a clingy octopus, somehow all grasping arms – but even then, Crowley still loved the time they spent sleeping together in their warm bed. 

He’d lie awake for hours, listening to Aziraphale snore gently, marvelling at the fact that he got to _have this_ , after so long. Six thousand years of waiting, of pining, of thinking he had no hope at all – and here he was, with everything he’d ever wanted.

When the ring of the doorbell came, Crowley and Aziraphale were arguing over how to cook pancakes. Both of them were more used to dining out than cooking for themselves, but there weren’t any Ritz-quality dining establishments anywhere around, and so if they wanted to eat then they had to make do with cooking for themselves. 

So far, it was a middling success.

“Was that the doorbell?” asked Aziraphale, trying to flip the saddest-looking pancake that Crowley had ever seen. It fell apart as he did so.

“Angel, you need to let them cook more before you flip them,” said Crowley, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “And I think so.”

“Well, you should go answer it,” said Aziraphale, with a look of sudden enthusiasm. “Oh, I wonder who could be paying us a visit?”

“Nosy neighbours, probably,” said Crowley, already going to the door. He opened it.

There was a girl with purple hair standing there, and although she was smiling, beneath that was the uncertainty of someone unsure of their welcome.

“Hello,” said the girl. “I’m Suzanne. I live in the house next door? The one with the rainbow flag in the window,” she added, as though Crowley could have possibly had any doubt about which house she came from. The purple hair had been a dead giveaway, especially with the sensible boots she was wearing.

“Who is it?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen. “Do invite them in, Crowley! And I think perhaps you should take over, here – these pancakes are looking a little, _er_ –”

“You burned them, didn’t you?” Crowley called back, in fond resignation. 

He turned back to Suzanne.

“Would you like to come in?” he asked, because Aziraphale would no doubt be delighted to meet their new neighbour. He’d probably scold Crowley if he sent the girl away already. “I’m Crowley, by the way.”

Suzanne smiled, losing her uncertainty.

“I’d love to,” she said, and followed Crowley into the cottage, towards the kitchen.

“Aziraphale, meet Suzanne,” said Crowley. “Our new neighbour.”

Aziraphale looked up from his mournful contemplation of what might, with some imagination, have been considered pancakes.

“Oh! Hello!” he said, beaming. “How lovely! I must say, I wasn’t expecting any visitors quite yet – Crowley and I only moved in yesterday. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Sure.” Suzanne was watching Crowley and Aziraphale with mildly-baffled interest. 

“I’ll do something with these… pancakes, shall I?” Crowley offered. While he was busy tipping the ruined pancakes into the bin, Aziraphale put the kettle on and got out his tea service from the cupboard. It was a genuine eighteenth century tea-service, because Aziraphale liked to hang onto things; but it shone like new.

“I saw the two of you shopping for groceries, yesterday afternoon. It caused a bit of a stir, you know,” said Suzanne, standing awkwardly until Crowley pulled out a chair for her and gestured for her to sit. “Oh! Thanks!” She sat down.

“Really?” said Aziraphale. “I suppose you don’t get many new people here, then? In a quiet town like this?”

Suzanne looked awkward, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“She means because we’re a _couple_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and watched as the metaphorical light-bulb flickered on over Aziraphale’s head.

“Oh, you mean because we’re both…” and Aziraphale made a vague gesture that might have meant anything, but which in this case meant, _man-shaped beings._

“Exactly.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a pretty big deal, at least around here,” said Suzanne, a little apologetically, but mostly with avid interest. Crowley thought he understood why. Small town like this, there probably weren’t many other people of Suzanne’s persuasion…

…and while he and Aziraphale _weren’t_ of that persuasion, at least strictly speaking – neither of them really had a gender, when you got down to it, which made something as complex as sexuality rather difficult to pin down, assuming that they even _had_ such a thing – as far as Suzanne was concerned, no doubt they resembled nothing so much as a gay couple. The poor girl was probably desperate for similar company, Crowley thought. 

“Is it a bit different, wherever you come from?” Suzanne asked, looking between them.

“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale, with a frown. “I mean…”

He made a slight face, one which Crowley knew meant, _I never really thought about it_.

“Must be nice,” said Suzanne. “People not caring, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve lived in London for ages, so…” Crowley gave a shrug, taking a seat at the table as Aziraphale brought the tea service over on its silver tray.

“You’ve been together a long time, then?”

“Oh dear me, no,” said Aziraphale. “Two months, at the most.”

Suzanne blinked. 

“And you – went and bought a _house_ together? Isn’t that a little soon?”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “We’d known each other… oh, nearly forever,” he said, exchanging a look and a smile with Aziraphale. “Eventually we figured out that the way we felt was mutual, and… well, why waste any more time than we already had?”

Suzanne clasped both hands to her chest, as though overcome by the romance of the story. But then, it _was_ pretty romantic when you really thought about it, Crowley thought, and he aimed an affectionate look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale gazed fondly back.

“Are the two of you married?” Suzanne asked, and both Crowley and Aziraphale blinked at the unexpected question.

“Well – no,” said Aziraphale, as though the thought hadn’t so much as occurred to him. But then, the angel had always moved far more slowly than Crowley did. 

“You do know it’s legal now, though, right?” Suzanne looked between them.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale turned to face him, astonishment written all over the former-angel’s face.

“What? It has?” And Aziraphale added, accusingly: “You never said anything.”

Crowley sighed, because he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to do this, and apparently he wasn’t going to get it.

He pulled a small object out of his jacket pocket, where he’d been carrying it for six weeks now.

“Catch,” he said, and threw the tiny box to Aziraphale.

“ _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale in reprimand, but he managed to catch it. He opened the box, and then sat there, staring. “Crowley, this is a ring.” 

“It is, yeah.” Crowley waited.

Finally Aziraphale looked up, and there was a look of mingled vulnerability and joy on his face.

“My dear, do you really mean…?”

“Well,” said Crowley, “I thought: why not make it official? It’s not like I’m ever going to want anyone else, after all this time. Never have, never will.”

Suzanne, still sitting at the table with them, put her hands to her mouth. There was a stifled squealing sound.

“So how about it, angel?” Crowley added, when Aziraphale did nothing but stare at him with eyes that were beginning to well over.

Aziraphale blinked wet eyes, and said, “Oh, Crowley. Of _course_.”

“ _Ohmygod_ ,” said Suzanne, her words still muffled by her hands. “ _Soromantic._ ”

Crowley really could have done without having an observer to the moment that he and Aziraphale were having, but it could have been worse. At least Suzanne sounded delighted.

Aziraphale looked down at the ring. Crowley thought it was a tasteful sort of ring, with the small diamond in the middle of the band, but suitable for someone who appeared, as Aziraphale did, to be man-shaped in physical form.

“Have you been carrying this around with you this whole time?” asked Aziraphale, taking the ring out of the box and sliding it onto his finger.

“Mm-hmm,” said Crowley, watching him fondly. “I was waiting for a good moment, that was all.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that said, very clearly, that it was most unfortunate that there was a guest with them in the kitchen right now, or Crowley would have been being kissed most enthusiastically.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, which said, just as clearly, that having a guest in the kitchen was no excuse, and that he’d be collecting on that promise later.

Aziraphale flushed a little, and turned to beam at Suzanne, who was still watching them with a starry-eyed expression over the whole thing. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “This is not at all how I imagined my morning going.”

“Me either,” said Suzanne, and then, smiling, “But this is _so much_ better, right?”

“Oh, yes.” And Aziraphale sent Crowley a look of open affection that warmed him on the inside.

He’d been doing that lately, Aziraphale: now that they didn’t have to worry constantly about Hell and Heaven breathing down their necks, and any admission of affection was no longer a matter of waiting for the axe to fall.

It was… _nice_ wasn’t really a strong enough word for it, but Crowley couldn’t think of a better one. 

So yes. It was _nice_.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale poured all three of them a cup of tea. No doubt, he was about to kindly interrogate Suzanne on all the local gossip – because although he pretended not to care about gossip, Aziraphale was, in fact, very keen on hearing all the latest rumours, wherever he happened to be.

Sure enough:

“So tell me, my dear girl,” said Aziraphale, peering at Suzanne over his tea-cup. “What can you tell us about our new neighbours?”

Crowley smiled to himself. 

Aziraphale sent him a curious look as Suzanne began answering Aziraphale’s question. Crowley just shook his head slightly.

_ Nothing to worry about, angel. I’ll tell you later. _

Aziraphale smiled at him, and went back to listening to Suzanne. 


End file.
